Last Song on the Radio
by Kira
Summary: "Music is a way to communicate, you know that?"


Last Song on the Radio

Title: Last Song on the Radio

Author: Kira [tenshidejiko@yahoo.com]

Rating: PG-13 for angst

Author's Notes: This is my first fray into first person point of view, in this case, Josh's. This started as a short scene I used to warm up for my English final (yes, I know, warming up for an English final with Josh angst!) and turned into this fic. Feedback is appreciated. Special thanks to Amber, my beta, for finding and fixing all those pesky mistakes. 

Summary: "Music is a way to communicate beyond words, you know that?"

I'm not crazy.

Nope, not me. I'm 100% sane.

Okay, maybe 80% or 70%, but I'm not crazy. 

Then answer me this: how come I can't listen to music anymore? How come I have to wake up to CNN Morning News clicking on my TV instead of to an alarm clock? Did you know you can program your television to turn on at a specific time? Yup. Took me a week to figure that one out. I swear, I drove Donna crazy with all the calls I placed to her as I tried to translate the instruction manual into English. Those things aren't even written in English – its some bizarre instructional language created just to annoy consumers. I should do something about that. Really. 

Anyways, back to the topic on hand, though I find that my mind wanders to inane things more often now. I find it hard to concentrate sometimes. 

So, is my TV thing abnormal?

I can listen to music once and awhile; when someone's radio is on the outside my office or music is being played on the street. The thing is, I don't dare listen to it for longer than accidental listening. I'm afraid of what might happen, and I hate being controlled by that fear. I've always felt that I could take on anything – just ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell me I'm egotistic. Ah yes, I do know they say this behind my back. Why should I care what other people think of me? If I put my mind to it, I could be in total control of my life and everything in it. 

I wanted it to be that way after Joanie. After that happened, after that moment when I lost control of everything, I vowed I would never let that happen again. I would never let anything else get that much out of my control that I'd lose someone again. Allowing things to spiral too far out of control was costly, and I don't think I ever want to pay the price again. Ever. Hence, this fear of music that grips my heart so harshly frightens me more than the fear itself. It creates a spiraling effect that brings me even farther down. 

On some days I can't even imagine getting out of bed in fear of it. I usually wake up to either the tail end of commercials or the morning show's host; they can't get their scheduling correct. I wonder why that is sometimes. Anyways, sometimes those commercials have music in them; awakening to this grips me in an icy cold shroud of pain that only lets go when the music halts. It's those days that I go into work dull and quiet, gaining Donna's worried eyes. I have since changed my TV to go off at a time I know there won't be any music – just talk. 

I used to go into work humming the last song I heard that morning as I was getting ready, which Donna had nicknamed Last Song Syndrome. I know she has it, too, which makes her annoyance at the occurrence, well, cute. My humming used to annoy her to the point that she wouldn't come when I called. Not anymore. You can tell she kind of misses it (which is sub-text I think) but never says anything about it. In regards to the occurrence last August, she doesn't say anything at all.

That and she was with me at Christmas. She was with me when I lost the control over my life with such grace that I made a breakdown look like a falling piano. And that's what it felt like. I was falling and couldn't find anything to grab onto. 

I tried my window, but that didn't turn out as I planned. 

I grasped onto Donna's hand to climb back up from that one. And after seeing Stanley, I thought everything would be okay. I really did. He said I'd get better one day at a time (well, that's what I got from it), and I have been. 

So why can't I listen to something so simple like music? 

With Donna's silence about everything, I find it hard to face the past and move one, since, well, no one talks about it. Sometimes it comes out in conversation, but is halted immediately when they see my reaction. I didn't even know I reacted. It's such a subconscious occurrence that I never noticed nor remembered any actions I took. That is, until a few days ago.

It was a week ago, to be precious, when I was talking with Sam and CJ about something I don't remember what. Somehow, the conversation turned to the shooting, and I blanked out. My mind went to a completely different place, thinking about the seven million other things I had to do instead of talking with them. I had four legislative agendas to take care of, dry cleaning to remind Donna about, three meetings – 

That's when I found out. 

I was brought back to reality by the silence, along with CJ and Sam's faces. They had those eyes. 

"What?" I asked them, running a nervous hand through my hair. 

"Are you okay?" inquired Sam, crossing his arms. This was the I'm-concerned-but-trying-to-look-like-I'm-not pose. I knew this pose. They weren't going to let me go on this one.

"Yeah, why?"

"You had this horrible look on your face," CJ said. 

"And you were flexing you left hand," Sam added. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

"Yep." I flashed a trademark grin their direction and turned away, my office looking pretty good right now. 

I hid. That's what I did. For the rest of the day, I avoided everyone like they were the plaque and kept myself immersed in my work. Soon, the subject went away and everyone went on with their lives. 

Or so I thought. 

Now I'm walking into my office, CJ sitting behind my desk and looking at the papers I have thrown about my desk. It kind of reminds me of when she was angry with me for the whole Sam situation a long time ago. 

Except this time, she didn't have anger written on her face, she had concern. 

So I shut the door behind me and walk over. Okay, CJ, I'm not going to let you know I know why you're here. Nope, I'm totally clueless and have work to do, so why are you sitting in my chair?

"Why are you in my chair?" I asked. CJ raised her eyebrows and took her feet from on the desk. 

"Josh, we need to talk," she commented simply, leaning across the desk. Putting my hands on my hips, I try to look angry. I am, too. Why do people feel the need to butt into my life all the time? 

"Right. Well, we'll have to do it later, I have work to do."

"No you don't," she interjected, "I already talked with Donna and she said your schedule is clear for the next hour." Damn Donna. Sometimes I think my mother has channeled her and is speaking through my assistant. Does she realize that people move away from they're parents to escape being babied? 

"I have files to go over to prepare for the meetings in an hour. That's why it's clear," I respond. I'm really not in the mood for this. The rain and cold weather has made my entire body ache with such ferocity I almost fell down walking to a meeting this morning. 

Oh God – CJ was standing behind me when it happened.

"Look, CJ, I'm fine, just a little tired. Okay?" Please let her leave. A blast of air conditioning hits me from behind, intensifying the aching in my back. I think I'm going to be sick. 

"Being tired is one thing, but almost fainting in the middle of the Yellow Hall is another," CJ retorted. "And that's not the first time I've seen something like that happen to you," she added softly. When Donna comments on how thick headed I am sometimes, I shouldn't deny it. And that sickness is creeping up on me again, so I think I'll take a seat in a chair – just for a moment. I don't want CJ to think I actually want to talk with her about this. Nope, I don't want to, not now. 

"It comes with the long hours. I just need a weekend to slee-"

"Damn it, Josh!" she interrupted. "That's not it and you know it. Why do you keep denying what's going on? You're going to run yourself into the ground if you keep this up."

"Excuse me?" I didn't want anyone to find out. No one was supposed to know and that way, I could keep on coming to work and no one would get hurt. They all know about me and music, isn't that enough?

"Josh, I'm just worried about you," CJ rose from my chair and walked slowly and carefully over to where I now stood, steam coming out of my ears. "We all are. C'mon – "

"What, and you were voted the one to talk to me? Did you get the short straw? Well guess what, I don't need anyone to look after me; I'm fine doing that on my own! Don't you dare come in here and tell me my health status!" Maybe I should calm down a little. That sickness is coming back, and I'm finding it hard to get breath to continue arguing. Dr. Carpentier, my newest in a slew of doctors, has told me that getting upset at this time might not be in my best interest. God, why do people feel the need to tell me what to do all the time? Do they think that just because I got shot that I've lost all abilities to look after myself? I've been doing in for almost twenty years now; I don't just lose it in a day. 

"Why would you think that? You think this concern is fake? Fine!" Throwing her hands off, she stalked out of my office via the connecting door, slamming it as she did. Relief washed over me, but the uneasiness didn't leave. Maybe I just had to sit down. Yeah, sit down. 

I don't think I made it to the chair.

**

An hour later, Donna came in to retrieve me for my next meeting. I heard the door groan open and her light footsteps come towards me. Opening my eyes, I found myself lying on the ground near my chair, having just missed it on my attempt to sit down. Last thing I remember is CJ storming off and me going to sit down. My head hurts. I must have hit it on something as I fell. 

Note to self: don't hit head on objects while falling.

Wait, another Note to Self: don't collapse at work, or at all for that matter. 

Maybe I should call Dr. Carpentier when I get home. 

"Josh?" Damn, I forgot Donna was in here. Ignoring groaning muscles, I pulled myself up and into my chair, a smile plastered on my face. 

"Yeah, what's up?" Don't ask about me being on the floor, okay Don-

"Why were you on the floor?"

"I tripped."

"You're a terrible liar, Joshua. I heard CJ storm out about an hour ago, what was that all about?" 

"Nothing," I reply. Donna seems to back off a little, finding that her questioning won't get her anywhere. Instead, she plops some files down on my desk.

"Well, your meeting was canceled. I brought the files on Tripton so you can read up before tomorrow morning. Other than that, it's 5 o'clock and I think I might be able to get out of here on time for once." 

"Sure, whatever." Switching on my desk lamp, I pull the files closer and immerse myself in them, trying to keep my mind focused on one thing instead of the fifty billion things that usually take up my superior brainpower. 

"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, rounding the desk to stand next to me. I turn away, trying to make out something she wrote on the cover of a file. 

"Fine. Go home. Have a night off for once. I'll be fine here, but I want you in early tomorrow morning," I reply with a wave of my hand. She stands there. "Go." She still stands there.

"You don't look so good. Maybe you should go home." She added some extra emphasis to the word you. I have to admit; her motherly nature towards me sometimes is just what I need. Looking over at her, I gave her a full smile (or at least all I could muster since my face really hurt, too) and nodded. 

"Sure," I replied, "why not?" This earned me a large smile from Donna, who started gathering up my files while I slowly stood up and walked to retrieve my coat. A glance out the window revealed the rain still pouring down like buckets outside, just as it had been at six o'clock this morning when I arrived. With the large black clouds covering the sun, it appeared to be midnight instead of early evening. And people wonder why I'm so pale. 

In my current predicament, I don't think any kind of sun would rectify my paleness factor. I feel like absolute hell. Every bone and muscle in my body has gone on strike, leaving me to move around as if I'm driving without power steering. Let me tell you, that takes more effort that ever, especially on turns. So sluggish is my body response that Donna beats me to my coat and holds it out for me. An expression on anger must have flashed over my face because she switched hands and held it out for me to take and put on myself. 

"Thanks," I say, my face trying to melt into something nicer. I'm so tired that my face falls, holding a dull, expressionless look. At least, that's what Donna's reaction seems to denote. She mumbles something under her breath and walks out to her own desk, retrieving her own items before returning to my office. In the time she was gone I had placed the neatly stacked files into my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks one last time. I nod, lacking the strength to do anything else, and walk dumbly by her side, my stride noticeably slower than hers. She slows to match mine, placing a hand on my shoulder. It feels nice. She's always been the one there to support me, call her my rock. 

By the time we reach security I'm out of breath and move to sit on one of the benches. Donna's arm is totally encircling my shoulders now. I have no idea what's happening to me. Was it the music I heard on the way to work? Or the aching I've been feeling for the last few days? What did I ever do to deserve this?

"Josh, maybe you should see a doctor or something," she comments, her body twisted to face me while holding my shoulders. I shake my head. She knows as well as I do how much I dislike doctors and hospitals. Plus, I've been in the hospital long enough for one year, and I don't want to make it my vacation home. I quickly hunch over, my lungs aching as I cough. I haven't coughed in a while. I mean, sure I've coughed, but not like this. Not like this when I feel like my throat in being poked with a knife and I have to cough desperately to get it out of there. I gasp and catch a glance at Donna's face. She's absolutely terrified. 

I feel the pressure around my shoulders lighten as Donna jumps off the bench and runs to the security who are already on the phone. I hear her talk with the night guard, then feel the weight on the bench change as she sits down and places her arm back around me. Everything's a haze right now. I can't see anything other than the white marble floor below me, can't really hear anything than my blood rushing in my ears. I feel a break in the coughing and turn up to face Donna, trying my hardest to smile.

"I'm fine," I manage to say. I hate to see Donna this upset, especially over me. She was supposed to be home by now, being able to have a night off this week, not sitting here with me. "Go home," I add, my voice nothing louder than a whisper. I think my voice is hoarse, but I can't be sure. 

"You're not fine," she replies. Her voice sounds as if she's been crying. I made her cry? "You've been hiding this from me for weeks. No more. You're going to see a doctor, and you're going now." I've learned that when she sounds like that, it's not wise to argue with her. 

Not like I could manage to argue with her now. 

I smile again and try to speak, but this launches a new wave of coughing, and I lean forward once again. There's a commotion near the security gate, and I hear several voices speaking above me. I think the First Lady's voice is among them, along with Toby and Sam's. They must have still been writing the speech for next week's benefit and ran down here. CJ soon joins them, along with Leo, who seems to be barking out orders to everyone. Donna's hand moves from my shoulders to my hand as my coat is taken off me. I think they're taking me out, the voices sounding more and more urgent as I continue to move. 

And Donna's there the whole time.

**

"Joshua?" Its Leo's voice. Slowly, I open my eyes and look up as I try and let my eyes adjust to the bright light. Damn. Only hospitals believe it's necessary to totally blind their patients to the point of annoyance. I'm in the hospital and Leo is standing over me. This cannot be good. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a semi," I reply hoarsely. Leo laughs and takes a seat next to my bed, leaning forward towards me. 

"Yeah, well, you should. I can't believe you didn't tell anyone what was going on," he commented. Here comes the scolding. If Donna's my mother, Leo is definitely my father. After my real father died Leo became a surrogate to me, at least even more so than he had been before. Now he's going to scold me like a father. "Donna and CJ both say you've been having problems, heck, CJ even said she came to see you about them and you just brushed her off. Why did you feel you couldn't say anything?"

"It wasn't a problem."

"Do you know what happened?" Leo asked instead. 

"No."

"A piece of scar tissue from your surgery blocked several air sacks in your lungs, making it so you didn't get enough oxygen. It finally made it so your body couldn't function. Tell me, did you find it hard to move Wednesday?" Wednesday? Wasn't that today, or at least yesterday? 

"Yeah. How long have I been out?" Leo sighed.

"Four days. They had to go in and fix everything." I groaned. Surgery again? Leo pointed his finger at me, a fatherly look on his face. "You know, you have to take better care of yourself. And for God sakes, tell us when something's not right. We do care, no matter how much we yell at you." I couldn't help but laugh, causing me to cough again. Leo put his hand on my arm, trying to calm me. "And be careful."

"Yeah." I smile after I finally regain the ability to speak. Leo pats my hand and stands up; his face brighter than it had been when I first work up. 

"Now, there are other people who want to see you – "

"Oh God," I groan. I just want to sleep. Is that too much to ask for? I'm tired and don't want to be here. I hope the surgery was just minor stuff so I can get out of here as soon as possible. I really hate these places, and no one seems to understand that. I can only tell them so many times. And right now, I'm not going to say a thing because I truly am tired and would like to sleep some more. 

When I'm asleep, I can pretend I'm at home and nothing is wrong. I can pretend that I have a week off from work that I am a perfectly healthy person who doesn't have to watch what activities I do or how many hours I work. I can actually lift things again and save the hundred dollars I spend every two weeks on pills. And in these dreams I'm not on so many pills that make me look like an old person with a hip replacement. 

Sleep is good, and according to every person who looks at me, I don't get enough of it. This I know, because lately I've been tired. 

Though I think there are other factors to cause that. 

Leo gives me another look, then turns and walks out of the room; the slice of door left open reveals the entire senior staff outside, most looking more sleep deprived than normal. You know, they always say they're okay with worrying and not getting sleep, but it always makes me feel bad and I have no idea why.

Donna walks in, her face looking the most tired out of all of them, or at least, out of what I could see of them. Something she does strikes me as odd, and I look up at her with a quizzical face. She stands. Yup, you heard me, she stands. Instead of taking a seat like Leo did and she did before, Donna stands next to my bed with the kind of face that shows she's hiding her true feelings. Her eyes are puffy like she's been crying, but the blue spheres behind that redness are sparkling with something else. 

"I'm glad you're awake," she starts, her voice wavering a bit. "We were all worried about you. I know you hate hospitals, so you'll be happy to hear your surgery wasn't as big as the last one, so you can leave in a week or so. Unfortunately, you'll be off of work two weeks after that."

"Donna, what's wrong?" I ask. She ignores me and continues speaking as if it's been rehearsed beforehand and to waver from it would mean disaster. 

"Your mom was going to come down but can't make it due to the storm system." This statement causes me to do two things, a. look out the window and see that it's still a downpour out there and b. frown. I love my mom. Love her to death, and to hear that she won't be coming down to see me is kinda, well, disappointing. Hopefully, the storm system will lighten up soon so she can make it down. Donna responds to my frown with a whimper.

"Hey," I start. "Are you okay?" She stops and levels with me.

"Am I okay? Am **I** okay? You're the one lying here in a hospital bed and you're asking if I'm okay?"

"Yes, I am," I respond. "And please don't yell." My head is already pounding and I don't need her loud voice giving me an even worse headache. 

"Sorry. Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine," I say. She seems to get cross again. 

"Fine? I don't want to hear you say that again. That's like your cover for not feeling well." 

"Okay." I can feel my eyelids already starting to droop. A warm smile comes across her face and she moves closer to my side, giving me a kiss on the forehead. It's very tender and sweet as she dwells on it for a few seconds before standing straight again and pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. 

"Good night, Joshua," she wishes, and slowly walks out of the room. 

Who is she and what has she done to Donna Moss?

**

Physical comedy has always been appealing to me. It's just that the prospect of someone else getting hurt makes me laugh. It all started when I was ten and saw the Three Stooges. They made me laugh so hard my mom thought I was choking on something. Though TV wasn't the beginning of it. Mon says that ever since I was a little kid I'd always laugh when someone else got hurt instead of seeing if they were okay. So you can see why when Sam tripped through the door that I ended up laughing at him while he tried to compose himself. He smiled a sheepish smile as he stumbled forward and fell into the chair. 

"Hey there," he says as if he hasn't just put on a show for me involving the door and him. I've always admired Sam's ability to be such a klutz and keep on walking. 

"Sup?" All right, it's been three days since I first woke up and talked to Leo and Donna. And in that time, I've seen Leo twice and Donna five times. She's not sitting here like last time, nor does she seems to be losing sleep over this whole situation. I don't want to sound egotistic, but why the hell isn't she worrying about me? Was that a one-time thing and will never happen again? Maybe its not that she's here or not, but that her waiting up for me means… 

She doesn't care for me anymore.

I'm sure she still cares about me, but I'm afraid its digressed from being good friends to being just people who work with each other. Either way, I have to get to the bottom of this. Sam seems to have noticed my flight into a fantasy world and leans closer towards me.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. Like I haven't heard that one before. I sill feel like a steamroller decided to take a trip over me a few times. 

"A little sore." He smiles.

"I'm glad." I scoff at his comment.

"You're glad?" 

"Yup. Yesterday you said you felt horrible. This is definitely an improvement."

"I said that?" I asked. I seriously don't remember saying I felt horrible yesterday, and since I'm not on any heavy medications, I am very able to recollect the conversations I've had lately. 

"Yeah, don't you remember? You said it when you were talking to Donna." Donna? She didn't come to see me yesterday. Of all the people I've seen, I remember Donna the most. Every word of our conversations and everything. But I didn't see her yesterday, I remember because I was very sad as a result of it. 

"I didn't see Donna yesterday." 

"Josh, she was in here for seven hours yesterday." My look must have said something because Sam regards me with wide eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"She wasn't here."

"God, Josh," said Sam, leaning back in his chair. "The poor woman has been in here more than anyone and all you can say is that she wasn't here? That's low, even for you." He starts to get up, and I try my hardest to reach out for his arm, but end up pulling something in the attempt and let out a yelp. Sam pauses in putting on his coat to look at me, his blue eyes holding mixed emotions. 

"I'm not – I'm – " Pausing, I let out a few coughs and shake my head at his advances to help. "I'm so confused," I whisper. Sam's coat is on but he's still standing in my room. "I honestly don't remember her being here ever. Heck, I don't remember seeing many people at all." Sam's moved closer but hasn't taken a seat. 

"You've been on a lot of medication lately." Leave it to Sam to be the innocent idealist. He's so gullible sometimes it's a wonder he's in politics. I knew he'd see it my way and understand instead of getting mad and leaving with us angry at each other. That's why he's my best friend. He's the best friend a guy can have and I often wonder why he sticks around me. Same thing with Donna. 

"I guess."

"Cheer up, you get to leave in three days," he smiles.

"And spend another three weeks at home," I retort.

"It could be worse." I snort.

"Hey, what did the they do anyways?" I've been curious about this for days. Everyone keeps saying it wasn't as complicated as the last time, and they're letting me out soon, so what the hell did they do?

"What did they do?" Sam repeats, confused. 

"Yeah, the surgery," I clarify.

"Oh!" Sam exclaims in understanding. "They made a small incision and cleared away the scar tissue. Took about two hours."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Anyway, I've got a thing," he says pointing towards the door. I nod the best I can and smile. "See ya later," he adds before making his way out the door. After he's gone, I looked towards the ceiling, admiring the pattern placed up there. If only I could see more of it since the lighting in here is way too bright for anyone's eyes. And they call this a place where people get better.

After I was released the last time, I couldn't see in the dark for a week. Seriously, I couldn't see when all the lights went out. Normally I can see just a little bit with the light coming off various electronic devices in my room. But after staying in one of these places for a while, light was burned into my eyes and I couldn't see without a lot of it there to help me. Kind of like I build up a tolerance to light. 

I **have** to get out of here.

**

At that time, I felt like I was in a parallel universe. I didn't remember a single visit from anyone other than Sam, who made it a point to arrive at exactly 2 o'clock every afternoon to tell me how things were going at the office and such, the latest gossip, and anything else he'd picked up. Of course, in the words of Toby, there is something kind of freakish about him. True, he's my best friend, but damn, he's just, well, a walking contradiction.

Take this as an example:Sam is a stickler for dental hygiene. Really. He has this really odd saying – I don't really remember it since I don't pay attention to him half the time – which he seems to say every time someone has a dental problem. He trips over things, and strikes me as someone who might know how to actually cook. But here's the kicker: he's not only one of the best writers I've ever known, but can be the most masculine guy ever. Just get him drunk or defensive. People make fun of him all the time. It's sad. 

Anyways, it's this eclectic nature that makes him my confidante. 

"Sam, I have a problem," I proclaim as he walks in at exactly two. They took my clock away after the first week, so I time everything by the programs on my TV. Of course, today had to be the day I lost TV privileges. They said I was watching it too much – I argued that with an intellect as grand as mine, I needed something to keep me occupied. The nurses laughed at me and disconnected the TV. 

"When don't you have a problem, Josh?" he asks, taking a seat along side me. 

"Ummm…when I'm asleep?" I answer in more of a question than a declarative statement. Sam takes the bait and laughs. 

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. You talk in your sleep," he responds. I what?

"I what?" 

"Talk in your sleep. I've got to say, you have some pretty interesting dreams."

"Okay, this is not good." I must have sounded serious because Sam laughs and lays a hand on my arm. 

"Don't worry, nothing too incriminating was said."

"Right."

"Anyway, you said you had a problem." Leave it to Sam to get back on topic. I sigh, not knowing how to say this without upsetting him like last time. He looks at me expectantly, his blue eyes searching mine as if I might betray what I'm thinking. Doesn't he realize how long I've been in politics? While the eyes might be the windows to the soul, politicians, or at least good ones, have disconnected their eyes from their minds and feelings. Although it might be said I have a horrible poker face, I've been working on it. How else do you think I've gotten senators to cry? They don't see what's coming until it hits. I'm invincible, I'm mysterious, I'm – 

"It's about visitors, isn't it?" 

I'm talking to my best friend. Okay, let's revise the previous statements. I think Sam's the only person who can see through all my defenses to the core of what I'm thinking. That's why I keep him around. 

"Yeah," I nod. Sam crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, his glasses reflecting the Blinding Light from Hell aka the lighting in the room. 

"You still don't remember anyone else?"

"Sam, I don't remember what the hell happened to put me in here."

"Truly? Because if this is the case, we need to talk to another kind of doctor," he replies. He's right. I have no idea what the hell is going on, and I don't want anything bad to be a result of something out of my control. 

"You know what, I think that's normal, nothing to worry about." Sam shifts in his seat. I know this movement – he's hiding something. Yup, Sam Seaborn is definitely going through an internal monologue to decide if he should tell me or not. See, this best friend thing works both ways. 

"What aren't you telling me?" I ask. He looks up surprised, then uncrosses his arms and takes off his glasses. 

"It's Donna, I'm worried about her." Donna? Something's wrong with her? What the hell? 

"What?" I think I said that loudly because someone in the hallway turned to look in the room. I start coughing again for a moment, Sam moves forward to give me a sip of the water sitting on my side table. After a minute they subside, a constant reminder that I have to be careful. 

"Calm down there, you'll hurt yourself," Sam says, sitting back in the chair once again. "She's been coming in here late at night when you're asleep."

"And?"

"She doesn't sleep that much. And it's starting to effect her at work."

"So send her home." 

"Josh, why do you think she only comes when you're sleeping?" 

"How does she even get in here that late? Don't visiting hours end at eight?" Avoidance. It's a great tactic. 

"Wait, I tell you that Donna's losing sleep and you ask how she got in here?" 

"Maybe," I reply sheepishly. See? I knew I was going to get Sam all angry with me because of this. He glares at me the best way Sam can. This isn't very intimidating in itself, but the idea of Sam glaring is enough. 

"Josh, she doesn't want to talk to you," he admits. Donna doesn't want to talk to me? Why wouldn't she want to talk to me? It can't be because she's mad at me since she still comes to see me, right?

"Doesn't want to talk to me?" 

"Apparently, she feels bad since she didn't see the signs sooner."

"See the signs sooner?"

"Yeah."

"This was totally out of her control and she's blaming herself?" Now I'm mad. How could she think something like that? If anything, she should be mad at me. I was the one who was keeping things from her and telling her I was fine. After sitting here for hours alone with absolutely nothing to do, one has the opportunity to reflect on things. Here's the kicker: I wasn't fine, and I knew it. I knew it all along, but I don't like, nor do I want, other people's pity. It's just not for me. 

I didn't want Donna to look at me with those eyes, those damn eyes that pity and worry about me. I want to be normal again, I want to be able to go to work and not have people fuss over my hours or worry about what I'm eating. I don't hear CJ or Sam getting hassled by anyone else about watching their blood pressure. 

"I want to be normal," I mutter under my breath. 

"What?" Sam asks. I shake my head.

"Nothing."

"Alright. See if you can be awake tonight. Fix this."

"Yes, Dad."

**

I thought for hours about how I'm going to initiate a conversation with Donna tonight. It's the oddest thing, since I never before have had to think of how to start anything with Donna. Usually these things just start on their own and kind of snowball into something bigger. But after hearing that she's losing sleep and doesn't want to talk to me, I kind of flipped out. I set my release date back by at least three more days after yelling so much I couldn't breath for a while. 

That's the perfect thing to do, Josh, since she's already feeling bad about everything. 

I'm just hoping that the stories don't get around so they tell her before she walks in. 

Oh yeah, I found out how she's getting in. When I was first brought in, she was sitting in here and sleeping. Then she was leaving constantly to do some work and try to get back in here before visiting hours were over. The nurses felt so bad for her that they bent the rules to allow her to come in after work. Well, after they discovered that her hours weren't normal working hours, they gave her a pass to come in after hours. 

Now, I'm supposed to be asleep. They give me sleeping pills around nine o'clock and check that I take them (one time you spit them out and they're on you every time), so right about now I'm extremely drowsy. Another great thing to do: be drowsy when you're trying to talk to someone. 

Out of the silence that blankets the hallways this late at night I suddenly hear a pair of high heels clicking on the tiled floor and her soft voice greeting the nurses at the station. Please don't tell her about this afternoon; please don't tell her about this afternoon. 

They're telling her about this afternoon.

I can hear her response – it's worried and angry at the same time. Good. She should be angry with me. If she's angry with me, I can deal with her. This quiet, not-talking-to-me Donna is something I can't deal with.   
  


The nurses tell her everything is okay and usher her to come see me. Great. The lights are out because I'm too tired to turn them on, and I find that my eyes are closed as her footsteps come closer, then enter the room. I'm just going to rest my eyes and listen to her yell about me yelling this afternoon. 

What a wonderful lullaby. 

"Oh, Joshua, what am I going to do with you?" she asks. It is now that I realize how long it's been since I last heard her voice. Sam was right, she sounds very tired. I'd open my eyes to look at her, but that would betray my cover, and that would be bad. Yes, very, very, bad. 

"You were yelling this afternoon?" she continues. "Why the hell can't you take better care of yourself? You know you have to be extra careful." 

Here we go with the careful thingy. I don't wanna have to be careful, I wanna be Josh. I wanna eat Tupperware. Okay, I'm tired, can you tell? My inner monologue is without, without, umm, words. 

"And you're not. You're never going to listen to me. I bet if you were awake right now, you'd say everything is fine, that you're here against your will, and you want to go back to work. Do you care about yourself or the people around you?" She pauses for a moment, and I feel her hand resting on mine. She rubs my hand gently, her other hand on my arm. 

I sometimes think about the summers I spent with my family off the coast of Massachusetts. We had a summerhouse up there and were able to get away whenever my father got time off work. There's a particular time I seem to recall now. 

It had been a beaching day (okay, that does seem to date my memory, doesn't it? Who calls it beaching anymore?) and at the end of it I was tired and sunburned, but still had the overenthusiastic smile on my face, the one only kids can hold after a day like that. My mother must of felt my smile was long overdue and decided to let me continue playing until the sun went down. I'd wandered off down the beach in a flight of fancy and started playing in the waves. By the time I knew I was out into the water too far, it was too late, and I could feel myself falling under the water. The last thing I remembered was the coldness of the water and the icy grip it had on me. 

I was brought back to reality by the slow and steady rubbing on the back of my left hand. It was like an angel had resuscitated me from the grips of the unknown. It was later on that I had found out that my mother was my angel, having heard my cries from down the beach and come to my rescue. 

That's what Donna's hand feels like now. Like the angel who's bringing me back to a realm of consciousness. Lifting me from whatever pit I've been dwelling in and depositing me on the grassy land up top that blends everything together in a blur of happiness. There's one problem with this land, which is why I've strayed so far from it. 

There is no pain. 

Don't give me that look, I think I've fallen asleep and am thinking clearly again. 

Look at it this way: if there is no pain, by what do you gauge your other emotions? It's kinda like that ying and yang thing. You have to have a balance of good and evil in order for the world to operate smoothly. Without pain, joy can't be enjoyed to its fullest extent, happiness not elongated as the person wishes to capture the feelings in a bottle for a rainy day or a day when the pain is so great it leads to despair.

Yes, Joshua-the-Philosopher is back again. I studied philosophy for a while in school, just as a filler class to make myself look better. My professor was so impressed with some of my papers that he shunned me after hearing of my path down the road to politics. 

Donna's hand quickly pulls away from mine, the sudden movement jolting me out of a false sleep, my original intent remembered. Using her movement as an excuse to be awake, I crack open my eyes and look over at her. Her face is drawn, her eyes puffy with dark circles under them. I move my hand on the hospital bed, running it down my tired face. 

"Did you have to wake me up?" I quip in a vain attempt to raise her spirits. She looks like a deer caught in headlights, not knowing what to say. 

"Umm…sorry," she says suddenly, moving to stand. Luckily, she's close enough for me to touch her, and I lay a hand on her thigh. 

"How are you doing?" I ask. 

"How am I doing?" she echoes. I nod, pushing myself into more of a seated position. 

"Yeah. I haven't seen you around lately. Everything okay?" 

"Yes, everything's fine." Her response is so quiet that I have to strain to hear her speak. 

"Donna, you're a terrible liar." She looks up at me so quickly, I think she might have whiplash. Her face has twin tears sliding down it, almost cracking my heart in half. Why is she so upset? "What?"

"It's all my fault. I should have seen this coming and paid more attention to you. I should have-"

"I'm still confused, how is it your fault?" 

"Huh?" I smile. She's lost her rhythm. That's the only way to beat an irrational Donna Moss – disrupt her rhythm, her pace, her pre-created speech. Sometimes I think she should go help Toby and Sam with the speeches, but she usually speaks in run-on sentences and would cause Toby to pull out the little bit of hair he has left. 

"You seem to be the only person who believes this entire mess is your fault."

"But it is!" she exclaims. 

"C'mon, Donna," I soothe. Usually I'd argue with her more but this isn't the time. Plus, I'm too tired to argue (mark this day). "Stop this. Stop all this. Sam says you've been coming while I'm asleep. I don't blame you, no one does."

"Really?"

"Well, these drugs do tend to make people say things they don't mean."

"Joshua!" She playfully swaps me on the arm. I smile at her again, then turn my smile upside down. 

"Now you have to go home and sleep," I order. She opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand. 

"I get a clean bill of health in two days. I can't have you falling over from sleep deprivation."

"Yes, master."

"I could get used to that."

"Don't count on it."

**

"Why do you think people always have the last song they hear on the radio stuck in their heads?" I ask Sam three days after my talk with Donna. Sam shrugs as he gets out of his sleek black car of the week – I have no idea what kind it is. I finally got out of that hole they call a hospital with orders of light activity only for the next week. Like that will happen. I plan on being back at work tomorrow, well, planned on it. I hear I'm not allowed back in the building until my light week is up. If the West Wing didn't have the tightest security in the country, I could sneak in. 

Damn.

"I don't know," Sam responds to my question as we're walking into my apartment. It's exactly how I left it – messy yet neat. 'Controlled chaos' I call it. I can find everything in a relatively quick time if I'm left alone and have my divinity tools. 

"C'mon. There has to be a reason," I encourage, flopping down on my couch. Sam clears off the old files sitting on my couch and sits down besides me. 

"Maybe because there's nothing else after it."

"What?" I ask.

"Well, they don't remember the third song because they heard more songs after it."

"I guess so."

"What's the last song you heard?"

"Huh?"

"What was the last song you've heard?" I look at him. I have no idea. I've avoided listening to music for so long that I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed it. Remember what I said about pain and joy? I think the same thing has happened with music and me. It wasn't that I was afraid of the music; it was that I was afraid of the fear itself. I let something as intangible as fear grow into something so large, I didn't remember what it was in the first place that I was fearing. 

"Josh?" Sam brings me out of my thoughts, his blue eyes almost shooting through me. 

"Music is communication," I say absently. 

"What?"

"Music is a way to communicate beyond words, you know that?"

"Sure, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"I haven't listened to music for moths."

"Really?"

"Yeah." We sit in silence for a while. I study my ceiling. It's a nice ceiling; of course, I've studied it a lot lately. Too much, I think. 

"I'm going to head home," Sam says suddenly. I turn to him and nod, noticing it's dark outside now. 

"Yeah, no problem." 

"Do you need anything before I go?" 

"Turn on the radio, will you?"

"Sure?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Sam complies, turning on the radio to play softly throughout the room as I sit here, looking out the window. Did you notice how much the light from all around pollutes the sky? I used to love stargazing, heck; I used it as a method of relaxation. Now I can't even see them over all the light around me. 

See the things you miss when you take away the extremes? This fear overtook me so that it monopolized my life. I had too much ying and no yang. I unbalanced everything to the point that something had to be presented to me in the bluntest way possible by the words of my closest friends. That was the only way I'd listen. Heh, I'm too stubborn for my own good. 

If music is communication, then maybe my avoidance of music impaired me in the social aspects as well. The minute I stopped listening to music was the moment I stopped talking to people. 

As the sweet sounds of the radio sweep over me, I laugh. 

Next week, Donna's is going to be barraged with the Last Song Syndrome again. And this time around, nothing's gonna stop me from enjoying everything in life there is for me to enjoy. Isn't music wonderful?

So how crazy do you think I am? 

I'd love to keep chatting, but I've got a TV to deprogram and a radio alarm to befriend again. 


End file.
